


Naming

by Zebeyithra



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hands, Present Tense, infirmary, slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zebeyithra/pseuds/Zebeyithra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you have a first name, Lady Trevelyan?" He knows immediately that he's pressed too far for one day as she steps back.<br/>"Perhaps another time, Commander."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naming

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written enough lately, and this has been plaguing me. I have a NSFW second chapter planned, but I'm not 100% sure about it.  
> As always, comments are always loved!

       The first time Cullen sees her, he can't help but to see her as a bundle of oxymorons. All soft edges with a sharp expression, she stumbles at least three times in the few minutes left after their encounter with the demons. Just before, she was surefooted as she wove spells through the air with the same confidence that she had when her staff whirled between the demons and Cullen. She looks like a mage desperately clinging to what little structure she has left, if the small actions he gleams have any impact. Cassandra hurriedly introduces them, and he barely registers what she has said. The Templar in him is on edge at the sight of this apostate, but he is a new man. Cullen has to remind himself with every chance, with every choice. Perhaps they're both new people.

       'The Prisoner', as they're calling her, is struggling to keep herself in check. She's probably never had to cast so many spells in a row, Cullen surmises from the shaking in her limbs. Her short auburn hair is frayed and messy, and her eyes dance along the bodies strewn about. Her lips are pulled into a thin line as Cullen addresses her. Her expression stays in the same stony stillness with only a nod to implicate any sort of friendliness. It's her eyes that do all the speaking, both in that cursed shade of lyrium blue. He can practically hear the hiss as her eyes narrow. _Templar_.

       His patience is thin as he leaves, carrying a wounded soldier over his shoulder. As much as he might dislike her now, he wishes no ill-will to the Inquisition's sacrificial lamb. He wishes he hadn't met her gaze because now he wants to go back, to rescue her, to make her explain why she hates Templars so. To explain he's left that life behind. Even now, he can feel the weight of her stare, and a glance back shows her frown has softened, brows slightly furrowed, but her eyes are still watching him as Cassandra tries to pull her away.

       He hopes she doesn't die. Her eyes will haunt him if she does.

  
  


* * *

  
  


       The Herald, as they call her now, requires no rescuing. Some rest and recuperation, yes, but Varric makes sure to regale the Inquisition with the tale of her heroism. Cullen is almost certain Varric's words are half embellishment, and its only after a sit down with Leliana that he learns of the Herald's selflessness.

       "She had a demon's claw in her shoulder, yet she continued to cast barriers around all of us," Leliana had said, hawk-like eyes scanning yet another correspondence. The whole battle had taken less than ten minutes. The resulting story would be an inspiration to bards for ages.

       The next time Cullen sees her, he's surrounded by angry mages and Chantry folk. She seems upset at the crowd, making no moves to stop them or choose a side. Cullen's surprise is halted by Chancellor Roderick in his face, yelling with spittle hanging from his lips. Its only after Cullen manages to diffuse the situation that the Herald approaches him. Her eyes scan him once, the same aggressive glare branding his skin before she finally meets his gaze. Their discussion is brief, thank the Maker. Once she turns away, its Leliana's knowing smirk that leaves his cheeks scorching.

       "She hates me," Cullen finally grumbles later that night over the War Table. The trio of women look up at him, exchanging glances before Leliana answers him.

       "She grew up in a tower, Cullen. My guess is Lady Trevelyan doesn't hate you, just a dislike of Templars." This does nothing to improve his mood, but a small part of his mind clings to her name.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


    Cullen is amazed when the Herald comes to visit him out in the field. Their discourse is light and somewhat friendly. He gets a feeling that Josephine, in all her tact and delicacy, has steered the Herald to only ask the gentlest of questions. Their usual conversations are loud and echoing, at each others' throats with the ferocity of raging dragons. Her apology is silent, said through downcast eyes and the smallest signs of submission. In return, Cullen finds himself prying.

       "What is your name, or do you prefer Herald?" Her laugh is surprisingly friendly and warm, quelling the chill in his joints for a time. She turns to face him, cutting the surrounding soldiers from their discussion.

       "I honestly wish they'd stop calling me that. I highly doubt Andraste would choose a mage for her Herald. Lady Trevelyan is fine," she sighs. She appears more relaxed in this small confession.

       "Do you have a first name, Lady Trevelyan?" He knows immediately that he's pressed too far for one day as she steps back.

       "Perhaps another time, Commander."

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


       Cullen stumbles into the infirmary, all bruised and battered on his side from a failed attempt to execute a more difficult training exercise. Days of drilling have left him exhausted and, in hindsight, it was only a matter of time before he slipped up. What he doesn't expect to see is the last scouting party the Inquisition sent out spread across the tiny house, taking up every flat surface. The doctor is more than busy resetting a limb, but even more surprising is Lady Trevelyan, blood drenching her forearms as she wrestles to manage a torn artery in a scout's neck. Cullen watches from the door as her fingers slide along the man's neck, pinching and pulling the tiniest needle through rent flesh. Only the tiniest sparks of magic drip from her fingertips, healing as she sews, and it occurs to Cullen that she must have been here since sunrise.

       In the span of a minute, the man's neck is sewn together. The Herald takes the time to slowly smooth a cool wet cloth across his skin, wiping it clean, all the while echoing the final prayers a Chantry sister is saying over those they couldn't save. When her gaze tiredly travels to the doorway, there is a moment of relief in her eyes that's sweeter than any mead, followed by worry. Without a word, she nods to a vacant cot, her hands already busy smearing a paste on a nasty burn. Cullen takes the offer, actually grateful to watch Lady Trevelyan at work.

       She has no love of leadership or battle, this much is apparent from their previous shouting matches. Here, with her hands and magic at work, she seems a full person to Cullen. Her eyes twinkle and narrow, focusing with an academic vigor while her usually clumsy hands steady enough to force the sinewy thread through the nearly invisible eye of a needle. Auburn locks, now finally long enough to tie back, have fallen to plaster to her sweaty forehead. Cullen is taken aback as he imagines getting up to wipe it from her face. It occurs to him that they have never physically touched. Her soft low humming lulls several patients to sleep, including Cullen.

       Its hours later that Cullen awakens, near silence filling the now empty room. Lady Trevelyan has already slipped Cullen's shirt off, having somehow rolled him onto his good side without stirring him. The coolness on his skin tells him that she's already washed the area. Its the strange dull pulling that wakes him. His skin tingles with the familiar sensation of magic, but it's more muted, more controlled. Lady Trevelyan appears to have never stopped working, blood splattered from her wrists to nearly her shoulder. Even the fresh apron she was forced to wear is smeared with blood and other fluids he'd rather not recognize.

       The first time he tries to move, her hand rests on his shoulder, holding him still. Her palm is strangely calloused, thickened flesh even on her fingertips. A tiny disgruntled sigh makes her nostrils flare as she waits for him to stop moving. When she looks at his face, there’s a soft smile that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle before she realizes he’s awake. All at once, the softness is replaced by her normally disgruntled frown. The dark circles under her eyes make her look exhausted, yet her fingers work steadily.

       “You could have said you were punctured, Commander.” Her lips barely move while a small pair of tweezers dance in her hand. With each touch, a small pulling answers, echoed by a plink of something dropping into a small metal bowl half-filled with water. The confusion must be evident on his face and she gives a small half-laugh. Her concentration is mostly on his side, just below his ribs.

       “Punctured?” The next time she plucks, she holds the fragment in the light. Thick slivers of wood are scattered along his side, having ripped through his shirt and plunged into his skin. Lady Trevelyan drops the splinter into the water filled bowl, giving Cullen a fair look at the amount she’s already pulled from him.

       “I’m nearly done. You’re lucky you were asleep when I pulled the metal out,” she grumbles, moving faster now that her patient is awake. Just the effort of being conscious is already making what little magic she could conjure push from his system, the numbness fading into a painful prickling.

       Cullen settles into the cot, letting Lady Trevelyan work. Questions make him bite his tongue, content to listen to the small sounds she makes. He’s not sure if it’s just now or whenever she works, but every motion is accompanied by a tiny hum or huff. The next time he hisses in pain, she stops, running the very tips of her fingers over his side to feel for any stray pieces. Only the smallest of sparks dances from her hands, healing the healthiest wounds into new clean skin.

       “I think I’ve got it all. What hurts?” Her words are soft and inquisitive, fingers skimming over his back with small prods, feeling and searching. The small shake of his head is enough to set one of his headaches roaring. Her fingers disappear from the dip of his back and, for a moment, he wants to ask her to go back. Instead, her hands cradle his head, helping him sit upright. The pain is enough to bring tears to his eyes and tremors to his limbs. She seems to understand, rubbing her hands together until they’re icy blue before running her fingers along his temples and over his eyelids. Cullen’s resulting moan is nearly embarrassing, but the relief is palpable. Freezing coldness pushes the pain from his skull, banishing it away until all that’s left is a mantra of repeating thanks. Her palms press into his eyes with just enough pressure to bring dancing lights in the darkness, fingertips massaging his temples in small circles. In time, her palms warm against his lids, moving over his forehead and into his scalp. It’s all so glorious, this moment of relaxed and thoughtless.

       A small giggle draws him out of his reverie, eyes flashing open to see Lady Trevelyan’s grin. Perhaps it’s her exhaustion that’s finally gotten to her or the sight of his own bared expressions, but his first thought is that he wants to see her like this every day. Somewhere in his mind, he hopes she’s thinking the same thing. They share goofy smiles, giggling slightly until the shaking in his chest makes him wince. Immediately, Lady Trevelyan’s hands are hovering over his side, forcing what little magic is still left into healing Cullen.

       Its not until she forces Cullen to stay in the infirmary overnight that the smile returns to her face. She’s gathered a pile of pillows and blankets to keep away the cold, making a cot up for herself near his. Late into the night, after she’s tried to tell stories to make him fall asleep, she mumbles something.

       “Diana.” He’s half-asleep when he hears her. The day’s work has left her almost asleep as well, but the word is clear. It takes only a minute longer before he can hear a light snoring from where she’s curled up. Even though he knows she’s asleep, he can’t help but say “Thank you”.

 

 


End file.
